


in which rumarin pretends to date the db at the thalmor embassy

by beartopiary



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Interesting NPCs Mod, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Vanilla, plot with just a dash of porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beartopiary/pseuds/beartopiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dragonborn and Rumarin are friends with benefits, but they pretend to be something more at the Thalmor embassy (see quest <a href="http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Diplomatic_Immunity">Diplomatic Immunity</a>). You all know where this goes ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	in which rumarin pretends to date the db at the thalmor embassy

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for blood, mentions of torture, and death of the Thalmor variety

The disease-carrying skeevers she could deal with. The undead Nords in dank and stuffy dungeons--those she could deal with too. The fucking dragons: she could even deal with those. But this?

"No," she declares, her head shaking in disbelief. "Absolutely not. I have traveled half around the entirety of this Divines-forsaken land following you and your every word. I killed  _a dragon_  for you. I killed  _two_ \--Divines preserve me, I killed two literal actual  _dragons_ for you. But I refuse to--to lower myself to this fake political dance of yours," she says, spitting out the last half of that statement as her hands gesture almost violently.

She watches with secret pleasure as the corner of Delphine's lip tightens. "Make no mistake, Dragonborn, I have no desire to see you flouncing about, making friends with the Thalmor either." Delphine glances down her bloodied robes and dirty limbs dismissively. "Talos knows you aren't exactly going to fit in with the crowd there, either. But I literally have nobody else to send into this shithole, so if you want to see Alduin stopped and the world saved, then this is something you're going to need to do," the Blade responds matter-of-factly. Umbre can hear Rumarin snorting skeptically from somewhere in back of her.

Delphine glares over her shoulder, presumably at him. Silence settles briefly. "Fine," Umbre hisses, "but I'm not happy about it. I need backup.“

"I can't go with you, you know that. The Thalmor have my face branded into the backs of their brains," Delphine says, hands thrown up in exasperation.

The Dragonborn sighs. "What a fucking  _b_ _ummer_ ," she says dramatically. "Then I need somebody else. I'm not going in there on my own."  
  
"Let me spell this out for you:  _we have no money_. It's not like I can waltz out there and hire--“

"Let's say hypothetically that Umbre does go to the party alone, and let's hypothetically say that she, being her ever-charming and sociable self, does get caught and captured; who will we have to fight the dragons then? I'm sure if we scrounge about in enough pockets we'll be able to afford..." Rumarin interrupts, trailing off as Umbre and Delphine swivel about to stare intently at him. His thought lingers in the air for a few more uncomfortable seconds.

"Oh," he states in understanding. "No. No. I can't--I've had enough of the Thalmor to last me a lifetime. You don't really think  _I_  of all people would be capable of--" He's interrupted when struck by the heap of stiff clothes that Delphine has thrown at him.

"There's your duds. I've a man--name's Malborn--that'll smuggle your weapons and equipment in for you. You'll find him at the Skeever. Now, Elenwen doesn't typically allow personal bodyguards at her get-togethers, so you'll need to figure out some sort of story for him if you want him in there with you." Delphine gestures vaguely in the bladebinder's general direction. "We clear? Believe it or not, I do have a job to get back to."

"Crystal," Umbre replies, her eyes trained on her follower. She puts a hand on his back, pushing him toward the exit, and the last sound she hears before the closet doors swing shut is a terse "Good," from Delphine.

—

The embassy is just about as bleak and devoid of joy as she'd expected. The carriage ride up had been a rickety, freezing hell of an awkward silence, and though she's glad it's almost over, the building on the horizon looks more like a prison than an escape from her current situation.

She hates to admit it, but she's horrifically embarrassed, which doesn't happen often. They'd brainstormed possible explanations for Rumarin's future presence beside her at the party (and he'd come up with a few clever ones, for sure, but she doubted the Thalmor would appreciate her bringing her own personal back-scratcher), but in the end, the easiest and most viable solution was, well, lover.

The dragonborn didn't have—and she hesitates to use the word even in mild association to herself—"lovers." The dragonborn was not a loving person. That isn't to say there wasn't sex (there was lots of sex), but the last time she'd embraced anyone in a manner that wasn't completely and wholly carnal had been interminable ages ago, and she certainly wasn't planning on doing it again for a variety of unsavory reasons.

Rumarin understood that. He'd been so good about it, laughing the whole thing off and throwing a friendly arm round her shoulders, throwing marriage jokes this way and that to lighten the mood like he always does ("It'll be exactly the same as we've always been, only  _without_  the fucking!"),  but none of his remarks had put to rest the quickening of her breath and the small constrictions of her chest. She's normally good with anxiety, but today it has swept her up and enveloped her whole.

She hates it. Magic is all about control: control of one's energies, control of one's thoughts, and most obviously, control of one's body. But no matter how savagely she reproaches herself, she can't stop the devilish fiend of a creature that insists on writhing about in the pit of her stomach.

She sighs inwardly, reflecting on these recent developments.  _Pathetic_ , she thinks darkly, shifting slightly away from the elf beside her. She rubs her cheek in a manner that she hopes looks natural to her pseudo-lover, despairing at the unusual warmth she finds there.  _Got to relax._

Easier said than done. She knows her discomfort discomforts him, but try as she might, she can't settle her stomach. Her mind is all awry.

The carriage finally pulls to a creaking stop. She quickly pats her pockets, ensuring that the invitation and her solitary lockpick (the one item she'd allowed herself to bring) are in their proper places, before hastily standing up and hopping off the wagon. She prays the cold air of the Skyrim mountains will be enough to calm her.

Rumarin follows suit after her, slipping his arm underneath hers and linking them at the elbows. She stiffens at his touch.

"Relax, love," he says softly (it doesn't help) as they step forward to meet the guard. The man holds out his hand expectantly and Umbre hurries to retrieve the invitation. She hands it to him and tries to refrain from sweating.

After a terse moment, the man gives a short nod and an artificial smile. "Welcome to the Embassy," he says, stepping aside and waving them in.

She doesn't know what she expected. The inside is just as cold and uninviting as the outside had been. Countless stone pillars adorned with intricate carvings and the same Thalmor banner repeatedly hung on every inch of wall space available were the first of the room's details to greet her. She then notices the unnecessarily large and complex rug at her feet, the multitude of neatly-dressed and undoubtedly influential people mingling by the walls, the bar to her right featuring a wide assortment of well-aged beverages, and behind it, the wood elf she'd met in Solitude.

She recognizes a few of the room's inhabitants--famous figures including Jarls Balgruuf and Elisif, and Maven Blackbriar herself--but before she has the chance to speak to them, one of the Thalmor steps in front of her from seemingly out of nowhere.

"Welcome. I don't believe we've met; I am Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim. And you are...?" The woman's voice is like firm velvet.

Umbre scrambles for a disguise, violently snatching up the two most common dunmer names she can think of in that split second. "My name is Ildari Sadri, and this is my..." She trails off hesitantly.

"Husband," Rumarin provides.

"Yes, this is my husband, Rumarin. It's a pleasure to meet you," she continues, inwardly berating herself for the slip up.

"Ah, yes." Elenwen's eyes narrow minutely, "The pleasure is all mine. Tell me, what brings you to Skyrim?"

Umbre opens her mouth, hoping that a sufficient reason will come to mind before she speaks, but she is thankfully saved by Malborn. Something about the wine. Elenwen sends her a look of apology before turning to discuss whatever petty issue had arisen with him. Umbre takes the opportunity to slip away.

"Really? Ildari Sadri? How come you get a fancy alias and I don't?" Rumarin asks quietly, the smile sounding in his words as he nudges her side gently.

"Panicked," Umbre growls.

She glances at him just in time to see his features crease with momentary worry. He opens his mouth (undoubtedly to ask if she's okay, damn him), but he's interrupted.

"Talos' beard, it's you, isn't it?" Balgruuf asks, his normally loud voice confined to a whisper.

"I haven't the slightest clue what you're talking about; My name is Ildari Sadri," Umbre replies with emphasis, glancing around inconspicuously.

"Ah... Nice to meet you, Ildari," Balgruuf smirks knowingly. "I see you've brought a friend."

Rumarin laughs, the sound coming out pure and golden. Umbre covets him for his ability to play the part. "Friends, no. Lovers is a closer description," he explains, his hand snaking around her hip and his face coming close for a quick peck on her cheek. "Sorry," he murmurs softly.

She forces herself to place her hand atop his, pressing their digits into the fur of her outfit. She tries hard to make her smile look genuine. "Yes, this is Rumarin. A pleasure," she introduces him, pleading with her hand to stop sweating.

If Balgruuf had been surprised at his display of affection, he made no indication. "Indeed. I am Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun; a privilege to meet you. I've not heard your name before; what business has led you here, to the Thalmor?" the Jarl asks conversationally. His eyes bore into hers.

"I deal with weapons and armor;  _Blades_ , you might even say," she answers, stressing her hidden meaning and jumping on the opportunity to focus on something that isn't her fake love life. "And I've come here to discuss the ever-pressing matter of the whereabouts of famous weapons and materials. The Thalmor are mighty wizards, to be sure, but when one is out of Magicka on the battlefield, one doesn't want to have to resort to using rusty old daggers and swords. Thats where I come in; I specialize in locating  _famous Blades_." She can feel Rumarin's near-incredulous stare on her skin.

"I see," Balgruuf says, smiling conspiratorially. "I've handled many a renowned weapon myself; perhaps I can assist you in your endeavors. What do you need of me?"

She can't believe her luck. This, she realizes, is why Balgruuf is her favorite jarl. "Well, now that you mention it, this gathering is starting to seem a little drab to me. I am ever so in need of  _entertainment_."

"Say no more; I've got this." And with that, he turns about and starts striding with purpose to one of the other guests.

"Now's our chance," Umbre whispers, tugging Rumarin toward the bar. Within seconds, she hears the jarl's characteristically booming voice shouting some nonsense about Ulfric and heresy. All heads in the room turn to him.  
  
Her gaze meets with Malborn's, and he nods in understanding. Still facing the front of the room, he backs up until his shoulders hit the wall and he swiftly opens a door to his right. He tosses something at Umbre; she has just enough time to catch it and identify it as a key before she and Rumarin arrive at the door. She stuffs it in her pocket as they slip through, just barely catching Malborn's hushed instructions: "Chest inside. Guards patrolling; stay hidden."

The door clicks shut, accentuating what she thinks is Elenwen's interruption of the argument outside. She can hear the ambassador's muffled voice demanding to know the reason for such excitement, or something else along those lines. She shivers with the thrill of their successful escape; the hard part is over.

She turns to face Rumarin. "You okay?"

"I should be the one asking that question."

He's right, and she's not okay. Memories of her past swarm through her head like the first time she'd tried casting a spell, the Magicka moving like lightning through her veins and spilling out of her fingertips before she even knew what was happening. Her mind is raw and untameable and she fights the urge to dig her fingernails into her scalp.

She manages. "'M fine." She ignores the pointed look he shoots at her as she starts to strip off the layers of fur that constitute her disguise. "Dunno how the bourgies fuckin' do it," she spits, casting the extraneous bits to the floor and reveling in the small comfort that is the cool air against her limbs.

He accepts her silent plea to change the subject. "Well, if the nobles are going to act like animals, they may as well look the part, too," he says, removing his fur cloak and looking at it disdainfully. She quietly barks out a harsh laugh.

"Yeah, it's one hell of a zoo we're in the middle of, isn't it?"

Umbre fumbles around in the pockets of her recently removed robe and eventually extracts Malborn's key. It fits obediently into the chest that sits in the corner of the room, and Umbre could almost die at the sudden rush of relief she feels looking at her robes. Her  _proper_  robes. She runs her fingers across the coarse fabric, the threads very faintly tingling at her touch.

She's about to hold it up to the light of the torch on the wall when the back door clicks open. She instinctively slams the chest shut before being roughly pushed up against the wall; she sees the astonished look on the guard's face in the doorway before she notices it's Rumarin that's pressing her into the stone and saying, "Fuck me," his voice sounding husky and needy and she catches on quickly and realizes that  _this_  is something she can handle perfectly fine.

They put on a good show, considering how quickly they'd been caught by surprise. Their half-clothed state works in their favor, too. She's already into it, grinding her hips into his and fisting her hands in the cloth of his undershirt, moaning softly into their kiss when the guard finally finds her voice again.

" _Um_ ," she starts, and Rumarin immediately whips his head around to look at the intruder. The bladebinder looks speechless, and Umbre tries to imitate his expression.

"What do you think you're  _doing_  in her lordship's pantry?!" the guard asks, finally finding her voice.

"What does it  _look_  like we're doing?" Rumarin is in the middle of answering when Umbre speaks over him.

"I think 'her lordship' would be extremely upset to realize that her most valuable and influential diplomats were being accosted by a lowly servant," she asserts quietly and lethally. The guard, judging by the sudden pallor of her face against the rich gold of her neck, takes the hint.

"M-My apologies, masters," she says irritably, before backing out the way she came and closing the door with finality.

They wait, listening for any others who might have noticed the commotion. Umbre remains frozen still in her follower's arms, her heart beating loudly and uncomfortably. "I think it's safe," she whispers, her gaze trained on the door.

Rumarin, apparently agreeing, begins to extricate himself from their embrace. "Sorry about that," he mutters as he shifts against her, and she shivers as he pulls away.

"Don't be," she says, unable to keep the throaty arousal out of her voice. He sends her a look, dark and warm.

"When we're done, yeah?"

She nods. "Fuck yes."

They set to clothing themselves again, and Umbre is grateful for the short reprieve from conversation. She slips on her robes and gathers up her equipment (she realizes she'd sorely missed the weight of her staff pressing into her back as soon as she puts it there), and then realizes that her heart is still beating and her stomach is twisting in all sorts of directions.

She pauses.  _Oh_. That was new. She turns to look at Rumarin, to observe him as he works. His face is frozen in concentration as he sets to binding his weapons, and she notices little details: the way his teeth are biting into his lower lip, the way the Magicka working through his blood turns his hands the slightest shade more blue, the way his vibrant eyes glint in the light of his new bound sword.  _Oh_.

He meets her gaze and she suddenly realizes that she is absolutely fucked.  _Julianos preserve me_.

He looks at her questioningly and she shakes her head in an attempt to clear it. "Let's get a move on."

—

The Thalmor embassy is, regrettably, full of the Thalmor. Umbre hates fighting other wizards; unlike typical run-of-the-mill swordsmen, they know all about the tricks she keeps up her sleeve. They know her weaknesses, too. She had never been one for stealth (the way the heavy doors slam open against the stone walls when she breaks them down never fails to satisfy), so she mostly takes the lead while Rumarin hangs back with his bound bow.

She takes a few good hits as they slaughter their way through the building (her right arm ends up singed pretty badly) but they arrive at Elenwen's office mostly intact. She takes a moment to cast a minor healing spell on herself, sighing with the sensation of healed nerves.

She looks back at her follower, who currently has his hands buried deep in the pockets of the last Thalmor justiciar they'd killed. He catches her gaze. "Jackpot," he says, smiling devilishly as he pulls a bottle of Honningbrew mead from the robes.

Her eyebrows raise skeptically, and he bursts out laughing at her expression. "You know you love me," he says, sending her a wink ( _Cheeky bastard_ ), and he slips the wine into the pack on his back. She wordlessly returns to the mission at hand kicks the door in on its hinges, too focused to pay attention to the somersaults in her belly.

It flies open, creaking pitifully after it hits the wall, and the battle is on again. There's two soldiers in the needlessly extravagant atrium, and a couple more that come sprinting up the stairs on the left side of the room, but this fight is no more trying than the hordes of Altmer supremacists they'd killed to get here.

She takes an arrow to her shoulder, but is otherwise unscathed. The Thalmor lay dead in heaps with their blood painting the walls when they sit down to take care of it. "Fuckin' pain in the  _ass_ ," she spits as Rumarin pushes it through for her. She gives herself bruises when she grips her leg to distract from the pain. "Hurry th' fuck up."

"Sorry," he says, focused on trying to keep its path through her flesh straight. It comes out the other end cleanly and she lets out a violent hiss.

The healing is fast and easy; nothing she hadn't dealt with before. She stands when the pain in her shoulder has died down to a manageable throb.

They make their way down the stairs noisily. The arrow had only served to fan the fires of her anger (at the Thalmor, at Delphine, at her _self_ ), and she barely holds back her urge to shout and spit and curse when the stench of blood and death waft up to meet them. "Not this _again,_ " she growls.

It was that again. Seeing the bodies rotting in the cages that lined the wall made it all the easier on her conscience to burn the Thalmor torturer alive. The room finally being clear of attackers, they set to hunting for the files they need.

"Nasty bit of business, this," Rumarin comments as he looks upon the only live inhabitant of the cages. "Please—" the Breton begs, lifting his head to look at his saviors through the bars.

Umbre fishes through the torturer's pockets with distaste. She tosses the key to Rumarin, deftly leafs through some documents (the one she needs is conveniently labeled across the front, "Dossier: Esbern"), and moves to speak with the former prisoner.

Rumarin has him unshackled and upright, and the disheveled man is rubbing at his bloodied wrists with care.

"Can you fight?" Umbre asks.

"Haven't had a decent meal or sleep in 'bout a month, but I'll do what I can," he answers, his voice croaky and hoarse. She nods. "Don't get yourself killed."

From there on out, the mission runs smoothly. They pick up Malborn, slip out through a cave exit (which contained a nasty surprise in the form of a frost troll, but it died quickly; at least, fast enough to ensure nobody else in its way got picked off), and before Umbre even fully realizes it, she and her motley crew are back on the road to Solitude.

They're done. Divines above, they're finally done. She breathes in the crisp midnight air, savoring the bite of the cold. Delphine better be fucking grateful for whatever Nirn-shattering secrets are held within the pages of that dossier.

Rumarin must notice the way the tension flows out of her body, for he bumps her shoulder with his own, looking down and grinning at her. She allows herself to give a rare smile in return, leaning into him and playfully pushing back.

She emphatically ignores the clenching of her abdomen as she and her motley crew slouch back to The Winking Skeever.

—

Corpulus doesn't ask any questions when she tosses him double the amount she usually throws in his direction. She likes Corpulus. She and Rumarin trudge into their usual room and they leave Etienne (the Breton) and Malborn to find another.

She's tired—Kynareth's tits, is she tired—but as soon as the door closes behind them she's dragging Rumarin in for a thirsty kiss, eager to pick up where they'd left off at the embassy. Her hands are off of him for only as long as it takes to shuck off her pack and robes, and he chuckles into the kiss, a deep throaty sound that she can feel against her skin.

"Someone's feeling impatient, aren't they?" he whispers into her throat, and she groans at the sensation of his stubble on her neck. He's ripping at his sashes and casting off his robes, too, and just like that, the butterflies in her stomach are back again, flitting about and tugging her this way and that and distracting her very much from from the situation at hand.

"Wait," she says, her hands coming up to push gently at his shoulders. He pauses, eyes searching her face for answers.

"Are you okay?" He asks, rather tenderly. It's rare that he drops his circus act and Umbre appreciates those scarce moments all the more so for it.

She struggles with the truth. "Sort of." She doesn't often falter for words.

He steps back. "I think I have something that might help," he says, smiling gently before turning to his abandoned pack on the floor. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable?"

She rubs her face, accepting his invitation and throwing herself unceremoniously onto the bed. He returns with the dead justiciar's mead in hand, and she greedily grabs at it before uncorking it and taking a healthy swig.

She coughs, sputters at the sickly sweet taste of it. She hates this awful swill that somehow globally passes for alcohol, but it's certainly better than nothing.

She hands back the bottle, almost glad to be rid of it. "Still tastes like hagraven shit."

She can almost feel the roll of his eyes as he sits next to her and takes back the mead. "Tasteless  _and_  ungrateful," he facetiously chides, sipping at the bottle himself. "Now," he says, and she closes her eyes with the dread of what's coming, "why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

She takes her time to find the right words. "You know I love fucking," she starts, and he smiles at that.

"Oh, I know all about that."

"And you know I'm not one for all the other stuff," she continues, images of her younger years swirling through her head.

"I am aware..." He says cautiously.

She casts her gaze at him, desperately snatching at words she hopes will work. "Today, it was... weird." She watches him warily.

"How so?" He asks, shifting so that he's on his side, one arm supporting his head.

"Oh, I don't know," she sighs. "Different, to start."

"Was it about...?" He trails off, hesitant to mention the one person she was uncomfortable discussing.

"Yeah, I think it was, but it wasn't like usual," she answers. "It felt sweaty and—and giddy, and  _new_. Like it was okay. Like... Like you were okay."

She can't bring herself to meet his eyes. The blood is rushing to her cheeks and she prays her dark skin is hiding that incriminating piece of evidence.  _Not that it matters anyway now_ , she thinks.

"Umbre, love," Rumarin starts, and her heart is beating so fast she think she might explode from all the excitement she feels stirring in her chest. She hesitantly looks at him.

So warm, so comforting, so  _inviting_ —and then he's leaning in and he's kissing her, and she doesn't care that she can still taste remnants of the vile honey on his lips because even though their mouths have made contact more times than she can even think to count,  _this_  time it is wholly and vividly new. And while she does like the sex, she thinks this time she can try liking some of the other stuff, too, and that thought scares her more than anything else.

"I love you," she realizes aloud, breathless and eager, "By the nine, I love you, Rumarin," and he's grinning at her, that radiant face lighting up the whole room. "That makes two of us," he replies quietly, mirth evident in his voice, and she snorts. "Shut and kiss me, you daft git."

They shift so that she sits atop him, her hands coming down to rest on his chest as she lowers her face for another kiss. Time slows as their tongues slide together, his hands coming up to fondly grip her hips as he hardens beneath her. She softly presses down into that touch, her hips circling over his smallclothes.

"Allow me," he murmurs, his hips pushing up against her, and she obliges him, lifting up as he removes first his, then her undergarments. She tugs off her undershirt as well, breathing heavily as the fabric rubs against the points of her nipples.

They are both finally naked, and she spends a precious few moments running her slit back and forth over his cock before he reaches beneath her with one hand, thumbing her clit. She moans at that, pushing her hips into his fingers as he lines himself up, his other hand coming up to her face as he moves in for another languid kiss. "Divines, yes, been waitin' all day--" _  
_

She moans again and bears down as he pushes up, relishing in the sensation of his slow and deliberate entrance before their hips come to meet satisfyingly. He always fills her up so nicely, she always thinks it's as if he were  _made_  for her, and she's crying out softly as she clenches experimentally around him.

"Mm," he mumbles, lying back down against the mattress. She follows him, leaning down so that her small breasts are pressing into his chest and their lips are perfectly poised to meet again. She kisses him deeply as he starts to move within her, that familiar thrum of blood and life and heat starting to pool in the pit of her stomach.

She licks into his mouth as he thrusts, eyes coaxed shut and hands clutched tight in the sheets on either side of him. He reaches up to thread his hands through the short strands of hair on her head, pulling her in as he reciprocates her kiss, fingers rubbing appreciatively into the skin by her ears. 

"So good," she breathes, "so good and I'm so close—" and his mouth is moving against hers, a waterfall of words that she can't quite hold on to, and she moves to kiss and lick at the pulse point on his neck and his hips are stuttering in their rhythm and before she realizes it, she's coming, her body sporadically clenching around his cock.

He thrusts once, twice, and then he's coming too, warm heat spilling into her and marking his completion. They fall against the mattress, breathing hard and with tired muscles turned to liquid.

"Good?" he asks once his breaths have had the courtesy to slow.

She nods into the juncture of his shoulder and his neck. "Fuck yeah. So good. New. I like it."

His hands come up to rub comfortingly against her back. "I like it too."

With the haze of pleasure that had been clouding her mind gone, she can feel the pain and ache of the day's toils coming back into her muscles. She heaves herself up and off of him before moving to settle beside him, and she relishes in the sensation of sheets that aren't damp with sweat against her back. She turns her head, looking into his golden eyes.

She runs her hand down his arm, gently gripping his fingers. Today had been a shitty day--hell, this whole week had been shitty (she refuses to let herself think of Delphine, the Thalmor, or anything else)--but she realizes as she rubs her thumb into the back of her partner's hand that in the end, it had all been worth it. Her eyelids slip shut as she drifts off to sleep, thoughts of bladebinding and joke-cracking and Honningbrew mead filling her weary mind.


End file.
